


Tourniquet

by Mother_of_Dragons



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, One or two plot holes, Pre-Established Relationship, Tried to make it gender neutral, can be read platonically, long-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 13:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_of_Dragons/pseuds/Mother_of_Dragons
Summary: He knows what you're here for without you even having to ask.





	Tourniquet

**Author's Note:**

> As a Deadpool lover and avid reader of fanfiction, I noticed after the 4th or 5th time reading similar fics that Wade was almost always the one getting cleaned up by the reader after a fight and rarely ever the other way around, so I decided to write a fic where the reader (that's you!) is the badass.

_ This time, you come to Wade in need of assistance. _

 

Day bleeds quickly into night in the city, streets lit solely by flickering, yellowed overhead lights and the occasional passing car, its headlights illumining even the darkest of alleyways with a dazzling flood of luminosity. Like clockwork, the sporadic burst of sudden light stretches and morphs even the simplest of shadows into disturbingly haunting silhouettes as the unscrupulous shy out of its scope of view, squinting briefly at its intensity before disappearing back into the faceless underbelly of veiled crime.

Similarly, the apartment is dark and silent when you break in, painstakingly dragging yourself out from the cold of the rickety, worn away fire escape stairwell and into the impossibly colder room. Broken glass crunches underfoot unnoticed to you, a telling blood trail following every step you make until you eventually collapse onto the dilapidated couch, managing to shove away the seemingly endless heap of crumpled beer cans before pulling the ratty blanket hanging on the edge of the couch over you and _finally,_  - somewhat - peacefully passing out.

It doesn’t last for long.

Like looking through a pane of frosted glass, the image isn’t clear at first, just a blur of colours and miniscule interlocking shapes that you can tell makes a bigger, palpable image but just can’t seem to decipher. The voices however are torturously, explicitly, coherent. Always screaming, always pleading. Then, there’s silence. The fog blurring your vision clears only to be replaced by a blinding, fluorescent white interrupted only by the quickly blossoming streak of red bleeding through a gash like crack. The voices merge, each pitch and frequency moulding together to create deafening radio static pressing down on you from all fronts. Your consciousness shifts, in lieu of a corporeal entity, as you try to distance yourself from the havoc. Back to black. The dread builds and--

A scream, your scream. A hand at your knee as you scramble to push them off and raise your arms to defend yourself.

" _I'_ _m not going to hurt you_ ”

It takes you a few moments to realise that you’re not dreaming anymore, that Wade’s back, and at least a couple of minutes until you’re breathing calmly again, eyes screwed shut until you can’t handle the darkness anymore and you open them before _those_ images start up again.

_This is real._

_*This is real*_

_This is **real.**_

You avert your gaze from Wade’s, choosing to look instead at the soft streams of sunlight pouring through the window you had broken last night and shivering slightly at the gentle breeze accompanying it.

“Holy shit, you look like the aftermath of a Nicholas Cage & Undertaker tag team beatdown” his voice breaks through the silence

Classic Wade.

“You should see the other guys” you mumble, attempting a smile. You stop when your busted bottom lip begins to smart.

“Guys, as in _plural?_ ” He exclaims, genuinely in awe.

“No comment”

“As vague and mysterious as ever I see. Well, I guess this is a great time to debut my new nurse’s outfit” he says, practically bouncing up and down on the couch in excitement. Despite this, the couch stays relatively stable - probably a result of its lack of springs.

“Please, _don’t_ ” you reply, tone deadpan yet pleading as you as you turn to face him, sure that he’s grinning underneath his mask.

“Keep in mind I’m still in the process of perfecting it. My fantastic sewing skills can only get me so far, especially when Blind Al refuses to lend me the sewing machine that she can’t even use because, y’know, she’s blind” he rambles, already retreating backwards into a darkened hallway. You have to hold back a laugh when you hear him trip over something and swear.

It doesn't take him long to re-emerge, sporting his supposed “nurse’s outfit” as he struts his stuff. In truth, except for the somewhat discernable red cross emblazoned in red marker across his nurse’s cap, it doesn't look much different from his maid outfit… apart from the below the knee cut & surprising lack of frills.

“It’s very… conservative?” you note, answering his unspoken inquiry as he shifts from foot to foot in what you assume is excited anticipation, either that or he really needs to pee.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. I got a little tired of the whole ‘slutty nurse’ trope, and, before you assume, this is intended to be a male nurse’s outfit” he replies, spinning briefly to show off the flared skirt.

“How very progressive of you” you say, trying (and failing) to heave yourself up on your elbows and into a sitting position - the room begins to spin just at the motion.

Wade catches you before you slip off the couch, propping you up gently as he reaches for something out of your line of sight and hands you a glass of water and 2 pill capsules, coaxing you to swallow them as he does so.

Surprisingly bitter, you struggle not to cough them up as they slide down your throat, shutting your eyes instead to try and combat the throbbing in your head as you take another gulp of water to push down the sensation of rising bile, before - once again - slipping into unconsciousness.

*

The next time you wake, you're lying practically drenched in your own sweat (tinged pink from mixing with long dried blood) in Wade’s bed.

Speaking of Wade, he’s by your side the instant he spots that you’re up, simultaneously handing you another glass of water as he helps you sit upright.

“If you wanted to get me in bed so badly, you should have at least taken me out to dinner first” you say between sips, gulping down as much as you can manage before setting the glass down on the bedside table, beside a dogeared copy of an old Playboy mag. 

“Figured it would be a bit more comfortable here than on the couch” Wade replies, hurriedly sweeping the magazine off the table in a way that he probably thinks is subtle.

“How long was I out?” you ask after a pause, glad at least that your lip had stopped hurting enough for you to smirk at him.

“Got some place to be?”

You shoot him a look.

“ _Okay, okay,_ Medusa. ‘Bout an hour” Wade replies, waving his hands half-heartedly in the air in mock surrender. You roll your eyes in response.

“Medic kit?”

Wade nods, back to mumbling to himself as gets up to rummage in a wooden chest at the end of the bed, chucking miscellaneous weaponry and paraphernalia over his shoulder onto the mess that is his bedroom floor as he does so until he reemerges holding the emergency kit aloft, victorious.

You start to take off the remains of your shirt as he pops open the case, ignoring the dull, uncomfortable ache in your muscles and as you lift the material up over your head, pulling along with it most of the flaky, dried blood caked onto your torso.

“Damn! You’re shredded!” Wade exclaims, the eyes of his mask blown comically wide as they flit over your exposed skin under the pretense of “surveying the damage".

“Hey, buddy, my wounds are up here” you reply, directing his gaze back upwards with your middle & pointer finger until he refocuses on the array of open or barely healed wounds littering your upper body, the worst of which lays, almost proud, right at the centre of your chest.

“That’s definitely going to need stitches” he notes, letting out something akin to an impressed whistle as he pulls up a stool beside the bed and sorts through the medic kit, laying out its contents.

The thought that you’ve never seen him this serious (or this quiet) before flits through your mind as you watch, eyes following every moment of his gloved hands as Wade picks up a bottle you can't make out the label of (probably a mild saline solution) and twists off the cap, placing a gauze swab at the mouth of the bottle as he carefully tips it over. Satisfied with the poured out amount, he lays the swab out flat onto the metal tray from the kit and repeats, until there are 5 identical gauze swabs lined up next to each other on the tray.

He speeds through cleaning the smaller cuts and scrapes, covering the ones that need the least of his attention with an array of Hello Kitty plasters and the larger ones with breathable bandages before picking up a sterile, mini-suture pack from the depths of the medic kit.

To his credit, the sting of the last 3 gauze swabs are minimal as he traces the crooked edges of the curved diagonal gash running from your clavicle to just a few inches above your navel with care, wiping away at the crimson stained, puckered flesh of the wound shorn through your skin’s epidermis until no red remains.

Reminded of the wound in your ~~dream~~ nightmare, you look away as Wade tears open the suture pack’s clear packaging, trying to conjure up happy thoughts as you ignore the scrape of metal on metal, and the goosebumps the sound triggers across your arms.

Oblivious, Wade threads the eye of the needle and knots it.

You grit your teeth as the needle pierces your skin, trying not to grind them together whilst he pulls the length of the string through the hole that he’s made and starts stitching, each puncture and pull sending a jolt of pain through your torso.

*

It feels like an eternity before Wade finishes the last suture, simultaneously pulling closed the final flaps of torn skin as he retrieves a set of metal forceps to cut off any excess string, leaving enough for him to comfortably tie a knot at the end of, before leaning back to admire his handiwork.

“Can't say this is the first time I’ve left someone in stitches” he jokes, voice muffled through his mask as he, tentatively, tapes down some protective gauze over the stitches. You unclench your jaw and reach for your torn shirt as form of response.

“Slow your roll, Y/N. I’ve got some spare clothes around here... _somewhere_ ” Wade says, sighing slightly as he lifts from the - no doubt uncomfortable - stool to look for said ‘spare clothes’.

You choose to humour him, absently feeling for the row of uniform stitches - just bumps under the filmy gauze - now adorning your chest, somewhat comforted by them as you wait.

“Worried about scarring?”

You start at the sound of his voice, almost forcefully pulled out of your wistful reverie when you spot Wade, back with some clothes slung over his shoulder.

“Fuck no, I’d never be able to show my face at St. Margaret’s again without one” you reply, skillfully catching Wade’s underarm throw with your good arm.

“Admit it, you just want an excuse to lift your shirt”

Rolling your eyes at Wade’s insinuation, you pick the black, tight fitting sweatshirt with a mini Wade on the front - katanas an’ all - and “Come to DaddyPool” emblazoned under it in glossy red letters, despite the fact that the script “The Amazing Spiderman” has obviously been meticulously peeled off the back of it, and pull it on, raising an inquisitory eyebrow at Wade after your head re-emerges from fabric hell.

“Manufacturing error” he replies, too quickly, shrugging his shoulders almost believably nonchalantly.

You make some sort of sardonic humming noise in response, heaving yourself out of bed to shimmy out of your torn jeans and into the, thankfully logo free, yoga pants provided. You choose to ignore the appraising whistle he gives you as you do so.

“Thanks for this, Wade. I’ll pay you back for your laundry bill” you offer, sincere as you gesture to his bedsheets; now just a mess of bloodstains and sweat.

“Don't worry about it. When was the last time you ate?” he asks, waving away your suggestion.

“Yesterday?” you reply, unsure yourself now that you have to think about it.

“Pancakes?”

“Pancakes"

**Author's Note:**

> You better believe I wrote a typical Hydrogen Peroxide wound cleaning scene... until I did my research and realised that H₂O₂ is actually more harmful than helpful - Damn it, Clementine! - and switched to a "saline solution". Also, to me, DP seems quite out of character in this? Like, he doesn't make as many jokes?  
> Anyways, constructive criticism is always welcome in the comments, thanks for reading!


End file.
